But, putting a bold face on the matter, and assuming
a fraternal air, he took her to the torture-chamber,
in which candidates sat dolefully on a row of chairs
against the wall, waiting their turn to come before
the three grand inquisitors at the table. Fortunately,
Winifred and he were the only spectators; but unfortunately
they blundered in at the very moment when the poor
owner of the punt was on the rack. The central
inquisitor was trying to extract from him information
about a Becket, almost prompting him with the very
words, but without penetrating through the duncical
denseness. John Lefolle breathed more freely
when the Crusades were broached; but, alas, it very
soon became evident that the dunce had by no means
“got hold of the thing.” As the dunce
passed out sadly, obviously ploughed, John Lefolle
suffered more than he. So conscience-stricken
was he that, when he had accompanied Winifred as far
as her hotel, he refused her invitation to come in,
pleading the compulsoriness of duty and dinner in Hall.
But he could not get away without promising to call
in during the evening.

The prospect of this visit was with him all through
dinner, at once tempting and terrifying. Assuredly
there was a skeleton at his feast, as he sat at the
high table, facing the Master. The venerable
portraits round the Hall seemed to rebuke his romantic
waywardness. In the common-room, he sipped his
port uneasily, listening as in a daze to the discussion
on Free Will, which an eminent stranger had stirred
up. How academic it seemed, compared with the
passionate realities of life. But somehow he
found himself lingering on at the academic discussion,
postponing the realities of life. Every now and
again, he was impelled to glance at his watch; but
suddenly murmuring, “It is very late,”
he pulled himself together, and took leave of his learned
brethren. But in the street the sight of a telegraph
office drew his steps to it, and almost mechanically
he wrote out the message: “Regret detained.
Will call early in morning.”

When he did call in the morning, he was told she had
gone back to London the night before on receipt of
a telegram. He turned away with a bitter pang
of disappointment and regret.

IV

Their subsequent correspondence was only the more
amorous. The reason she had fled from the hotel,
she explained, was that she could not endure the night
in those stuffy quarters. He consoled himself
with the hope of seeing much of her during the Long
Vacation. He did see her once at her own reception,
but this time her husband wandered about the two rooms.
The cosy corner was impossible, and they could only
manage to gasp out a few mutual endearments amid the
buzz and movement, and to arrange a rendezvous
for the end of July. When the day came, he received